


From My Lungs Through the Dark

by CapGirlCanuck



Series: Baker Street Boys One-shots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I mean there's hurt, John Watson Needs A Hug, Memories, Mild British swearing, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock's Violin, Someday John will be happy again, Suicidal Thoughts, Watching your best friend commit suicide is not conducive to easy sleeping, and a little bit of Comfort, commit apparent suicide I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26361172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: "I was so alone. And I owe you so much."Sherlock Holmes gave John Watson a reason then. A reason to keep going.John needs that again now.(Post-Reichenbach)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Baker Street Boys One-shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936546
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	From My Lungs Through the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griselda_Banks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Banks/gifts), [Tor_Raptor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/gifts).



> This is what happens when I am stuck in isolation, and read nothing but Sherlock fics for three days straight, and _then_ listen to Nathan Wagner's cover of "Would Anyone Care" by Citizen Soldier late at night. I crack and write something in a completely different fandom from where I'm supposed to be. I blame this on the beautiful and amazing Griselda_Banks who introduced me to the show, and most recently on the amazing writer Tor_Raptor, who's stories held my imagination the last few days.  
> Needless to say this is my first foray into this fandom, and I hope I do it, and do _them_ justice. Please be kind.
> 
> The opening part is not meant to be a dream, just reliving memories.
> 
> TWs: All the typical suicidal references you'd expect.
> 
> Music: Nathan Wagner cover of "Would Anyone Care" by Citizen Soldier, and Bach's "Chaconne" (xoxo, Caro).

_Would anyone care,  
Would anyone cry,  
If I finally stepped off of this ledge tonight?  
Would anything change?  
Would you all be just fine?  
‘Cause I need a reason to not throw the fight  
It just might save my life_

It was Sherlock’s words he remembered, not his own.

Here it was one year from That Day, and John could recall almost everything Sherlock had said exactly.

_“Turn around and go back the way you came…_

_“There. Now look up. I’m on the rooftop.”_

The sickening anxiety that had been building in him from the moment he had seen Mrs. Hudson smiling at him and asking about Sherlock, caught at his heart then, and the world seemed to freeze.

That tall figure, wind swirling his long coat around him, silhouetted against the sky. For a moment the clouds thinned enough to make John squint, but no. When he blinked, Sherlock was still there.

He didn’t remember what he said, other than swearing.

And then Sherlock was talking, telling him it was true, that he was a fake, that he’d invented Moriarty, that he was a fraud…

John protested; yes, he had done that much. Tried to tell him, refused to believe him. Because even as the fear and the questions and the need to scream, _“Get off that bloody roof, Sherlock!”_ tightened its grip on John’s chest, that truth was crystal clear: Sherlock was real. He was everything John had believed him to be, he was brilliant, he was genius, he was an arrogant sod who called John his friend.

And Sherlock’s voice was shaking, desperate, _Sherlock Holmes was crying_ …

He was shouting at John: _“No, stay exactly where you are! Keep your eyes fixed on me.”_

Sherlock’s hand stretched out toward him, and Sherlock had never reached out to John, not like this, had never pleaded as if he were somehow coming apart and John was the only one who could possibly hold him together.

_“Please. Will you do this for me? …_

_“This phone call. It’s my note. That’s what people do don’t they? Leave a note?_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

He knew what was going to happen before he saw it.

_“SHERLOCK!”_

John sat bolt upright in bed, gasping, eyes staring into the darkness, where he stood frozen, watching Sherlock fall.

It only took a few moments for him to catch himself, to feel the mattress creaking under him, for him to fumble frantically for the switch on the lamp.

The memories were blurry after that, his own scream still ringing in his ears, as the world slowed to a crawl. He had fallen, he had seen the blood, he had wrapped his fingers around a slack wrist, and then there was only rain on his face, and strangers’ hands, and the image of Sherlock’s bloodied face stamped on his retinas.

He could still feel rain on his cheeks.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

John covered his face with his hands, and wept.

Why? Why had Sherlock jumped? Why did he think he needed to die? What could Moriarty have possibly said or done to convince Sherlock of such a thing?

Any why had he called John? Why had he made John stand there and watch? Didn’t he know how much John cared about him?

He had called Sherlock a machine, he had stormed off and left Sherlock… But Sherlock had called him. Sherlock had made his last phone call to John. That meant something, it meant he cared, or he knew John cared, or _something_ … But whatever that something was, it wasn’t enough. John wasn’t enough to save him.

When the sobs finally wore themselves out, when he had mopped his face with a handkerchief and blown his nose, he slumped back on the pillows, exhausted.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, because Sherlock _wasn’t_ a machine, he was a man. One of the best John had ever known.

He had changed John’s life.

More tears, but John didn’t fight them. He pulled the blankets aside and swung his feet to the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed, and dropping his head into his hands.

 _“Why are you crying?”_ Sherlock sounded confused; then sharply: _“There’s no time for sentiment, John.”_

John shook his head. “You idiot,” he choked out. “Can’t you see I’m crying because of you? Because you’re gone and I don’t know how- how- how I’m supposed to keep on going without you.” The last part came out in a whisper, and he could almost feel Sherlock freezing, staring down at him, his blue eyes gone wide and startled.

John lifted his head, blinking away the warm salt water. “I know what you’re thinking. _Don’t be stupid, John. You can’t attach that much importance to people._ You said, _‘Don’t make people into heroes, John.’_ You’re thinking, _People will only fail you._ And you did, Sherlock. But you didn’t. Because _I_ failed _you.”_

The only response was empty silence.

After a time, John dried his face and sat still, gazing into the pool of light cast by the lamp. Slowly he let his eyes travel around the room, scanning bare walls and clean carpet, searching for what wasn’t there.

Slowly he turned back to the light, let his attention drift downwards to the night table, and the single drawer in it.

Without thinking he reached a hand to grasp the small wooden knob and pull. His hand fell back to his knee, and he stared at the way the light caught on the slide, and the worn spot on the de-cocking lever. All this time and he had still managed to hang onto his old sidearm.

Sherlock pressing it quietly into his hand, as they crouched out of sight of some criminal; cleaning it on the coffee table, while Sherlock played Brahms; Sherlock shooting out the wall, and that smiley face, shouting he was bored… Sherlock.

Sitting at the desk in his bedsit, muzzle pressed against his jaw for God only knew how long. The loneliness, the silence, the haunting question of who could possibly miss him if he pulled the trigger. Before Sherlock.

He’d been on the edge then, right about at the tipping point. But he’d never been able to do it. Even now, as he brushed his thumb over the notching, slid his fingers under the grip, his hand stayed in the drawer, limp. He’d been close though. Very close, drifting closer with each empty week that faded into the next.

_“John.”_

He did not look up. “What? You picked suicide. Does that make it off limits for me? Not allowed to try to keep up with you, the world’s greatest detective?”

Sherlock face-to-face with the cabbie, and the grip firm and comfortable against John’s palm…

He pulled his hand away as if the gun had burned him.

_“I was just biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”_

“No, you didn’t. Did you really think I’d come after you? Worry about you, after knowing me for two days?” John could not hold back a laugh, before he dropped his head, stared down at his hands dangling between his knees. “You were just so… unlike anyone I had ever met. You were sharp and strange, and-and somehow, I had to know who the hell you were.

“I had no idea what I was getting myself in for, did I?”

Sherlock, chuckling. _“Thought you were getting a flatmate, and instead got a high-functioning sociopath, and an unconventional tour of London.”_

John shook his head, biting his lips together even as he smiled. “No, you dim-wit. I thought I was getting a flatmate, and got a friend into the bargain. The tours of London were just… extras.”

Sherlock’s tone dropped to serious, even uncertain. _“And… what about the other… ‘extras’?”_

“No, Sherlock.” John squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. “Don’t you get it?” He blinked over at the gun once more. “You. Saved. Me. And that… and you… and I…”

Silence fell again, heavy, yet not uncomfortable.

John took a few shaky breaths, before he slumped back on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

“I needed you. And I need you now.”

There was no reply, not even in his head.

John let his eyes drift shut, and now he did not see Sherlock falling, did not see blood mixing with rainwater. He just saw Sherlock, laughing at a joke John had made, clapping him on the shoulder. _“Dinner? There’s a good fish-and-chips place on the next street. Catch a cab back to Baker Street from there.”_

He remembered a rare winter morning when he’d found Sherlock in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet. When he’d finished heaving, John had dragged him back to bed and told him to stay there. Even more remarkable was that he had. And _thanked_ John for bringing him tea! The next day he’d been bouncing off the walls once more.

John said it out loud. “How could I end the life you gave back to me?”

But still he gave a sharp sigh, a shake of his head. “If I could just see you, Sherlock, if I could just _talk_ to you. If I just knew _why._ Why the bloody hell you had to do it? Why the bloody _hell_ you haven’t _stopped_ being dead?”

The questions. The questions he knew would never leave him. The questions that would drive him back to the edge if he let them.

John sucked in a deep breath, sat up again; he deliberately avoided paying attention to the time as he unlocked his phone.

He hadn’t done this before. He’d tried, but never got past the first few seconds. It hurt, hurt like hell, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to hear a violin without hurting again. But now, maybe, he could do it. Because how could he hurt any more?

_“How do you feel about the violin?”_

“Don’t mind it at all,” John whispered, as his thumb hovered over the single audio file on his phone. He hit it before the fear got the better of him.

John wasn’t a classical expert of any kind, rarely recognizing the pieces Sherlock played, and this one was no exception. John had always thought of it as ‘The Midnight Wanderings’; it was the most common thing for Sherlock to play in the middle of the night.

Sometimes it woke John up, but oddly enough it had often coincided with the nights when he’d jerk awake from some wretched nightmare, and be lying there trying to fall back to sleep, when the music would start in. He would wake in the morning, remembering the song instead of the dream.

One night in the middle of a particularly stressful case, John had been falling asleep on the sofa, and Sherlock had started playing. John had pulled out his phone to record him. It was a long piece, at least if John was right in thinking it all one.

Now the first notes brought tears, but John clenched his hands by his sides, determined to leave the phone where he’d set it back down—on top of the gun in the drawer.

It hurt, dear God, it hurt. But as the music played, and his fists loosened, he found that it helped just a little bit too. He could almost imagine it was Sherlock downstairs, playing as he paced in the living room, channeling all his runaway brainpower into this song. But it wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t.

The notes rose and fell, slightly tinny coming through a phone speaker, but catching John, steadying him, even with the pain. The tears passed, and John quietly pulled his legs up under the covers and lay back, closing his eyes.

He could see Sherlock, instrument tucked under his chin, long fingers gripping bow and strings.

_“You know, Sherlock, you’ve made it awful hard to forget you.”_

_“Glad to know you retain something, John.”_

Every note seemed to tear at John’s heart, and every successive one patched him up again. Because this was the closest he’d gotten to Sherlock Holmes in the longest year of his life without him. It was grief—and a hope—beyond words, beyond tears.

Sherlock, smiling at him over his shoulder, as he walked down the street, breeze ruffling his black curls and swirling his coat around his legs.

_“Come on, John, there’s work to do!”_

“In the morning, Sherlock,” John murmured, half-asleep now.

The song played on, a graceful dance of ups and downs, of dark and light, a kind of benediction, maybe even… forgiveness. But John was drifting now, somewhere between past and present, memory and imagination.

When the last long notes fell from the bow, and there was silence, Sherlock seemed to come across the room and stand by the bed.

John squinted blearily up, catching something like concern in those blue eyes.

_“John. Don’t do anything stupid. Promise me?”_

John took a long breath, felt the aching hole in his chest fill with hopeless affection for this man, this man who had saved him, this man to whom he owed so much. “I’ll try.”

A tiny smirk. _“Alright then. Goodnight, John.”_

John reached over to turn out the light.

_Would anyone care,  
Would anyone cry,  
If you finally gave up and turned out the light?  
The world would be changed  
If you left it behind  
You can’t be replaced, no, tonight is the night  
You take back your life…_

_-‘Would Anyone Care’ by Citizen Soldier_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always wonderful. Love my readers! <3<3


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